


and i hear guitars

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Carnivale - Freeform, Dancing, For He's A Jolly Good Fellow, Gen, Terror After Dusk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: “Who are you supposed to be, sir?” Jopson asks as he twists the last of the curlers to Francis’s hair. “Some minor hero from a book I read years ago,” Francis says. “He earned ten thousand a year…”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69
Collections: Terror After Dusk 2019





	and i hear guitars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Terror After Dusk event on Tumblr

If a piece of platter could deliver insults, perhaps none would be as effective as the one lying harmlessly in front of Captain Francis R.M. Crozier. Francis stares at the plate like its mere existence was an offense. Jopson lingers from a few steps away. They wait, attention rapt, then Francis gives a solemn nod.

“Well, it seems my food is not likely to reacquaint itself with the dinnerware. Bring out my kit, Jopson.”

At this instruction, Jopson springs into action. With an efficiency to rival the most able foretopman, he produces Francis’s most garishly coloured neckerchief and lays out his hitherto clandestine stash of paper curlers. “Who are you supposed to be, sir?” he asks as he twists the last of the curlers to Francis’s hair. 

“Some minor hero from a book I read years ago,” Francis says. “He earned ten thousand a year…”

The half-mile walk to the festivities reinvigorates Francis’s limbs. He had been kept at his quarters for too long. To trudge about the ice, stinging though it was, felt like the sweet coda to his nearest brush with death.

He does not ask Jopson if the damp air has ruined his curls.

They reach the tent and marvel at the decor that the men have fashioned. Francis hears Irving first, lost in a ditty with a voice that cannot be described as flattering. Thomas comes up behind him and they share a relieved embrace. Francis nods to Little, an acknowledgment of his holding the fort, or perhaps an apology; he will sort it out later. A gunshot rings out from beyond the partition, and Francis moves the flaps aside to see the cause of the men’s excitement.

James Fitzjames looks perfectly comfortable raised on the shoulders of his men. They carry him amidst chants and cheers, his brass helmet bouncing on his head and catching the lamps’ eerie light. For a moment, Francis envisions him as in a children’s storybook, a pirate king crossing the Mediterranean, or the privateer in eager pursuit. James turns to clasp Le Vesconte’s outstretched palm and in so doing meets Francis’s gaze. Then he loses his balance and keels over.

Thankfully, Manson has the strength of an ox. He catches the entirety of his commander in a single arm and daintily deposits him on a crate like a damsel from a tower. James sits up and fumbles to right his helmet. When Francis nears him to get a proper look he sees that James is flushed pink. He cannot quite meet his eye.

“All well, James?” Francis asks. A small crowd has gathered around them and greetings ring out from the mass of joyous faces. “Captain!” “Welcome back, Captain!” “You’re looking well, Captain!” In the distance, a mischievous Thomas: “Looking good, Francis!” 

Despite his transgressions, the men seem pleased that their captain is returned to them. Francis understands–having lost one, they were not eager to lose another, and he wishes that the tidings he will soon give them would not wipe the gaiety from their faces.

“Francis…”

Francis turns to see that James has risen from his seat. His cheeks are still flushed, but Francis reckons it as an effect of the gin. James gives him a furtive look and steps close, as close as can be deemed appropriate in a packed ballroom. “A country gentleman?” James whispers. “I could not have imagined you so mellowed. Are you Bingley then, or is it Darcy?” 

Francis balks, and his eyes widen in alarm. His suspicion confirmed, the corners of James's mouth curl upward. “How did you know?” Francis asks.

James appeases him with a conciliatory smile. “You forget, Francis–I have spent many visiting hours in your cabin, and seeing as my companion was no great conversationalist I had to amuse myself with the titles stowed at your bedside.” 

Francis has not forgotten. In fact, he has a very clear memory of James standing at the doorway, his features aghast as Francis suffered the worst of the chills. “At ease, Jopson,” he remembers hearing, moments before the sleep takes him. “I’ll take it from here….” 

But that seems a lifetime ago now, a memory of a tableau of an instance that could never have happened had it not been for the extremity of the circumstances. And instead of Francis dying and James smoothing his brow, they were in a makeshift racetrack, the notes of a quadrille fleeting across the tent interior. On hearing it, James’s eyes light up. He steps back and curtsies, then he takes the end of his red cape, flourishes it about him as one would a fan, and looks up expectantly at Francis.

“Absolutely not,” Francis says.

“Come now, Francis! Do it for the men!”

When Francis looks up, the men are indeed staring at them–not with derision, or fear, but with genuine anticipation. He sees a grinning Thomas lift his new leg high above his head, a mock toast for the upcoming absurdity. Francis turns back to James. He is trying to prove something here, Francis thinks. The specifics do not come to him just then, but he decides that he trusts James Fitzjames enough to offer him his hand.

A proper quadrille needs four pairs, and after much coaxing and pulling rank, James manages to bring into the fray Little, Irving, Hodgson, MacDonald, Le Vesconte, and Stanley. The eight of them take their positions, and at the music's next measure, Captains Crozier and Fitzjames open The Royal Arctic Ball of 1847.

The men are raucous, perhaps rowdier than when Francis first entered the tent. James easily slides into the role of the lady, smiling delightedly as he and Francis part and come together in a swirl of coattails and skirts. Francis is dizzy with it. The heat and the turns and the smell of whisky go to his head. He misses a beat and barely evades Irving’s wings as they converge. Francis catches up to James, outstretched hands awaiting his, then they wait their turn as the rest of the pairs enter the dance.

The biggest revelation, perhaps, is Hodgson, twirling around in full skirt with his papier mache hair artfully balanced on his head. At one point, he does a high kick, right to the beat of the music, which ignites the men into a frenzy of hoots and howls. Doctor MacDonald leads him gracefully as they switch partners with Le Vesconte and Doctor Stanley, who are as ill-matched as oil and water. Le Vesconte at least seems to be enjoying himself, taking particular glee in stepping on Stanley’s toes.

Francis and James rejoin the dance, faster this time, the steps and turns becoming more complicated as they gain speed. The four corners of their small dance floor are a flurry of bells and headdresses. By all accounts, there should be no opportunity for conversation, but James attempts nonetheless. “Am I as good a dancer as Sir James?” Francis hears him ask as they meet at the center of the floor. Before he can answer, they must part again, and he must wait for the next measure before he can deliver his reply: “Now, James, that was years ago–” he evades yet another near collision with Irving–“I can scarcely remember what we danced to, let alone the skill of my partner.” 

James's answering chuckle fades as he spins away, and Francis is half-tempted to break from the pattern, if only to let it ring in his ears. 

The dance comes to an abrupt halt when Le Vesconte, overeager to put his toeless foot to good use, stomps a beat early and arrests James’s cape. James stumbles backward and scrambles for a hold. Francis is able to pull him by the wrist, but with such force that he shoots past Francis and topples over in the other direction. In a moment of unworldly coordination, Francis pivots at his feet, grabs James by the waist, and lunges forward to hold both their weight. James, almost parallel to the ground, clings to Francis’s lapels like a sailor thrown a buoy at sea. 

The band is still playing, Francis is sure of it, but he hears the music as one would underwater, muffled and slowed. He feels his knee digging into the small of James’s back, his collar twisting under James’s fists, the pads of his fingers pressing into the cold of James’s armour. Francis’s thighs are starting to flounder, so he gathers James to his chest until his legs find their footing. Finally upright, they end up in a tangled embrace, their knees knocking together through James’s skirt. 

In Francis’s arms, James starts to tremble, and it is only when he grips James’s waist in comfort that he realizes that James is actually laughing. He leans his head on Francis’s shoulder, letting the strength of his guffaws reverberate through both their bodies. His helmet slips from his head and it rolls away with a clang. Francis swears it sounds like guitars.

When their senses return to them, Francis retires outside. The waxy moon casts the landscape in a silvery blue light that Francis wishes he could properly put into canvas. “The Arctic Festival of H.M.Ships Terror and Erebus, 1847”, he would name it, and he would put Sir John at the very center, standing proudly under the arch along with Bryant and Strong and Evans—smiling, whole, alive.

A snow-padded footstep brings him back to the present, and Francis glances behind him to see that James has followed him out. He joins Francis in his inspection of the stars and they share an easy silence: two captains surveying the lead they must one day take.

“Will we make it, Francis?”

James poses the question to the vast expanse in front of them. The somberness in his tone is so far a departure from his laughter only a moment ago that Francis feels an onset of regret. He steels himself, breathes in the fresh, lethal, arctic air. He has rehearsed this in his head, and he will need to deliver it to the men before the night is out. “Our prospects are good,” he says. “Our provisions are more than ample, and by some fortune the men are still healthy. Come spring, there will be enough sunlight in the day for decent travel, and if we chance on a Netsilik party, they might... they _will_ help us find more game.”

James nods, but the anxious furrow in his brow remains. His lips are tight with worry when he speaks. “What worries me is the terrain. We are sailors, not overland travelers. While the men can be relied on to keep a ship afloat, I cannot infer the same for traversing long distances, across unknown territory.”

“Hmmm,” Francis concedes, “but I know that someone among us is an overland traveler who once walked 50 miles overnight. We might rely on his expertise.”

James turns to him then, unfiltered surprise and pleasure on his face. It is a good expression, amiable, unexpected—Francis would like to see more of it. “I don’t believe I’ve shared that story.” James says, and then, in a more teasing tone: “Have you been asking about me, Francis?”

“At least I don’t go snooping around other people’s bookshelves.”

They share a laugh, and their soft chuckles reverberate across the silent night. It’s a queer feeling, to be laughing with James Fitzjames. Francis regards him with fresh eyes: by some shift in the ice, the complexion of their relationship has changed, and Francis belatedly chides himself for not allowing it sooner. A swift cloud covers the moon above them, but while the landscape dims, James only seems to glow, his hair shining as orange as the oil lanterns they keep alight.

Behind them, someone screams: “Fire!”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Dave Malloy's ["No One Else"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVXeil3mQ_Q) plays on loop. 
> 
> The art in this fic was commissioned from [hamstr](https://hamstr.tumblr.com/). Also if anyone draws Francis dance dipping James, I owe you a fic.
> 
> ETA: Now with additional fanart from [Readaholics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937327). Isn't that adorable?!


End file.
